Springtime thoughts

The young year's sun is stark and pale. Menacing and actual as inevitable disaster.  But a thing distant enough that panic may be forestalled.  For a time.

These are today the sounds that buoy you out of your nascent slumber, that lift you into awareness:  the hushed lament of the wind in the boughs of Douglas-fir and hemlock; blithe, frolicking songs of warblers.   You will live within that spectrum.  As have I.

In the sunlight, dreaming of how conversations might go.  Or what if I had given her a book?  Or what if he were to ask me something at a time when I could answer?

Silly thoughts, those.  Across the river, the golden promise of spring enlightens the crowns of the West Hills.

Home for now.  I'll be back, my young friend.  For a little while.  And if, in your glorious future, you remember a dim, warm shadow that loved you as you slept, it is more than enough.